


fireworks

by stainedglassflood



Series: watford fragments [2]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oneshot, Unresolved Tension, Watford (Simon Snow), Watford Fifth Year, a bit messy again but the joy of oneshots is that it can't come back to haunt me later, but that's how i write most things tbh, somewhere between banter bickering and death threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stainedglassflood/pseuds/stainedglassflood
Summary: “Still alive, Chosen One?”Simon spun, long scarf whipping around him, lips curling into a snarl.Baz Pitch was standing right at the edge of the bonfire. Posture perfect, chin tilted up, one hand casually playing with the flames. He’d put something in his hair to make it sleeker and taller (as if he wasn’t tall enough) and it was shining in the firelight. Most of his face was in shadow, but that damn condescending smirk was clear on his lips.It was obvious he thought he looked impossibly cool.--The Fifth Year start-of-term picnic. ("Baz usually makes sure I see him.")
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: watford fragments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548601
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	fireworks

Sometimes Simon thought he dreamt his summers.

He’d never loved summer, even before he had Watford to miss – there was just something hazy and terrible about the endless light, the close, cloying heat, the vast, empty blue skies… Something like sleeping and not feeling rested, like knowing he was dreaming but not waking up. He might as well have been sleepwalking from June to September every year. Even the first few days after he got back to Watford were bleary and muffled, full of dusty sunlight and empty spaces. He was never really _himself_ again until the rest of the school had returned, and brought the first cold bite of autumn with them. Until he could be sure _Watford_ wasn’t the dream.

They were all back now, and the air was humming. Half-familiar figures were everywhere, swirling and laughing down the torch-lined path that snaked from the fortress across the drawbridge and down to the grounds. The linings of their shadowy capes flashed purple when they moved, gleaming in the light of the bonfire that burnt at the heart of the Great Lawn and reached up into the dark. Ribbons of smoke and sparks spun off the flames and were drawn away on the wind over the Wavering Wood.

Crows were laughing and wheeling over the treetops. There was a dark scent of spices and melting caramel under the smoke. The autumn wind tousled hair and snatched at clothes and sent a shiver through Simon’s lungs.

The whole school was aflame. Alive and burning beneath the blue-black sky.

Simon Snow was awake.

“Still alive, Chosen One?”

Simon spun, long scarf whipping around him, lips curling into a snarl.

Baz Pitch was standing right at the edge of the bonfire. Posture perfect, chin tilted up, one hand casually playing with the flames. He’d put something in his hair to make it sleeker and taller (as if he wasn’t tall enough) and it was shining in the firelight. Most of his face was in shadow, but that damn condescending smirk was clear on his lips.

It was obvious he thought he looked impossibly cool.

“I’d been getting my hopes up,” Baz said, tilting his head to eye Simon disdainfully, “but it seems the Fates haven’t been so kind as to kill you for me quite yet.”

“What, don’t they take bribes? Shocker.” Simon crossed his arms and stared back at his roommate. “Must be the first time in your life you haven’t got something you want.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean _I_ was disappointed. I’ll relish it.” The light flickered, showing flashes of Baz’s pale, pointed face. (Paler than ever. With dark circles around his eyes.) “But it would have been a mercy. There’s nothing the Fates could devise for you that would be worse than what I have planned.”

Something Simon couldn’t name squeezed a clawed hand around his heart. Something like the voice in his head that whispered when his gaze caught on the stained glass in the Chapel, or through their tower window to the Wavering Wood. _Loo_ _k while it’s still here._ _Breathe it in._ _Memorise it._ _D_ _on’t let it out of sight_ _. One day th_ _ere’_ _ll_ _be nothing left but memories and ash_ _._

He pushed his jaw forward. Squared his shoulders, even though he knew he looked scrawny and unimpressive at this time of year. (Because Baz had told him. Every year.) “You’ve been saying that for a long time, Pitch, and I don’t feel all that dead yet. Are you playing the long game? Or just trying to _draw out my suffering_?”

(He said the last few words in a mockery of Baz’s accent: lofty, dated, hissing the S.)

Baz wrinkled his nose, but there was a glint of amusement in his narrowed eyes. “That would be telling, Snow.”

He reached into his pocket with his free hand and tossed something at Simon, who caught it before he could think about ducking.

It was an apple. Simon turned it over in his hand, and it gleamed red and gold in the firelight.

Simon looked up, frowning. “Is this poisoned?”

“Yes. Don’t they teach you these things in the orphanage?”

Simon’s glare deepened, and he rubbed the apple on his jumper. “Do they teach them in your haunted mansion?”

“Pitches don’t need to be taught.” Baz tossed his fire from one hand to the other without breaking eye contact. (His eyes really were shadowed. He didn’t _seem_ tired, but this was Baz. He wouldn’t be seen slouching if he were at death’s door.)

“You look sick,” Simon said, then crossed his arms. (He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but he might as well get some answers.)

Baz arched an eyebrow lazily. “Must be the growth spurt. _You_ look like a street urchin.”

“Because I’m hungry. You’re just…” Simon rubbed his hair and looked at Baz side-on. “I don’t know. Wasting away.”

Baz gave him a mocking look. “Like a Victorian damsel?”

“No, like…” Simon narrowed his eyes, scanning Baz closely. “Like there’s something dark eating away at you from the inside.”

Baz straightened up edgily, his jaw tensing, and the fire in his hand flared blue.

Simon’s eyes snapped back to Baz’s.

_No._

_It was possible, but– Surely even Baz wouldn’t dare– wouldn’t let something– Unless he_ _already_ was _–?_

“Charming as your conversation always is,” Baz hissed, “I have better places to be. Miss Possibelf asked me to help with the fireworks, since I’m a more competent elemental than half the staff.”

“She’s letting _you_ near explosives?”

Baz laughed coldly. “Look around you, Snow!” He swept his fire in a wide circle, sparks flying. “Look at _me_. Gunpowder is the least of your worries.”

Simon grabbed Baz’s wrist, pulling him away from the bonfire. “Be _careful_ ,” he snapped.

Baz’s eyes flashed, and he tore his arm away. “You’re not my _mother,_ ” he hissed.

“Have you forgotten what happened to her?”

Baz stared at him, face taut and frozen.

Simon’s throat tightened. He couldn’t speak, couldn't breathe - he just stared back.

After a long, icy moment, Baz lifted his chin, turned on his heel and stalked away.

Simon huffed out a breath, and turned back to the flames.

He held up the apple to the light. Tossed it from hand to hand, considering. Then he lifted it to his mouth and took a bite.

(It tasted sharp, fresh, autumnal. Like the air in the Wavering Wood. Like home.)

Bright blue fire illuminated the sky overhead.

The first of the night’s fireworks had bloomed.

**Author's Note:**

> two things:  
> -no, the apple is not poisoned. 15y/o baz just isn't capable of doing nice things for simon without mind games  
> -it's mentioned at some point in fangirl that before baz had long hair, he had a pompadour. i do not intend on letting anyone forget this.
> 
> thanks for reading! let me know what you think~


End file.
